The Mote in God's Eye - Larry Niven [208]
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah. That was pretty sloppy, Blaine. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” My God, how many times have I thought about it?
“But I doubt if anyone in the Navy could have done better. The ship must have been a madhouse with all those civilians aboard. All right, Senator, he’s all yours. They’re ready in Room 675.”
“Good. Thank you, Admiral.” Fowler hustled Blaine out of the hearing room and down the corridor to the elevator. A petty officer had one waiting.
“Now where are we going?” Rod demanded. “Six seventy five? That’s retirement!”
“Of course,” the senator said. They entered the elevator. “You didn’t think you could stay in the Navy and be on that Commission, did you? That’s why we had to hurry that Inquiry through. Until it was on the record you couldn’t be retired.”
“But, Senator—”
“Ben. Call me Ben.”
“Yes, sir. Ben, I don’t want out! The Navy’s my career—”
“No more.” The elevator stopped and Fowler hustled Rod out. “You’d have had to leave eventually. Family’s too important. Can’t have the peers neglecting government to go chasing around in those ships all their lives. You knew you’d have to retire early.”
“Yes, sir. After my brothers were killed there wasn’t any question of it. But not yet! Look, can’t they give me a leave of absence?”
“Don’t be an idiot. The Motie question’s going to be with us a long time. Sparta’s too far away to handle it. Here we are.” Fowler led him through the door.
His retirement papers were already made out. Roderick Harold, Lord Blaine: to be promoted to Rear Admiral and placed on the inactive list by order of His Imperial Majesty. “Retirement pay to be sent where, sir?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re entitled to retirement pay. Where do you want us to send it, my lord?” To the Yeoman clerk Rod was already a civilian.
“Can I donate it to the Navy Relief Fund?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do that.”
The clerk wrote rapidly. There were other questions, all trivial. The documents were made out and thrust at him, and the Yeoman held out a pen. “Just sign here, my lord.”
The pen was cold in his hand. Rod didn’t want to touch it.
“Come on, come on, there’re a dozen appointments waiting,” Senator Fowler urged. “You and Sally both. Come on, boy, sign!”
“Yes, sir.” No point in delaying. There’s nothing to argue about. If the Emperor himself named me to that damned Commission— He scrawled rapidly; then placed his thumb print on the papers.
A taxi whisked them through New Scotland’s narrow streets. Traffic was thick and the cab had no official flags to open holes for them. It was an unusual experience for Rod to travel this way; usually he’d had Navy fliers to take him from rooftop to rooftop, and the last time in New Scotland he’d had his own gig with waiting crew. No more, no more.
“I’ll have to buy a flier and get a chauffeur,” Rod said. “I take it Commissioners rate an air transport license?”
“Surely. You rate anything you want,” Senator Fowler said. “In fact the appointment carries a titular baronage, not that you need it, but it’s another reason why we’re getting so popular lately.”
“Just how many Commissioners will there be?”
“I’ve got discretion on that, too. We won’t want too many.” The taxi lurched as the driver nearly hit a pedestrian. Fowler took out his pocket computer. “Late again. Appointments at the Palace. You’ll be staying there, of course. Servant’s quarters will be crowded, but we’ll squeeze your man in—got anybody, or you want my secretary